THANKSGIVING 

(AND UTHIR) 

RHYMES 



E'JGEJVE *P ^VN 




'^$ 9S~$% 



Class 
Book 
Copyright N° 



COFYKIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THANKSGIVING 

(AND OTHER) 

RHYMES 



EUGENE BROWN 



COP'S RIG [I'll : 1 1 190 

EUSKSE UK (J W -\ 

I'l- OKIA, 1 1.1 . 



LIBRARY 


of CONGRESS 


Two C 


spies Received 


JAN 


2 1904 


Copyright Entry 

0~cJc i-i- i i r 

CLASS 0- XXc. No. 


7 ' cfopv s 

■i ■ 



o3 



*0» 



\<V 



THE BROWN RHYMES PUBLISHING HOUSE 

309 MAIN STREET 

PEORIA . . . IEUNOIS 



PHKBS UK 

S I -\ I I X t'IM\TIVi: 
li .111 \ . ILL. 



Jlrrfarr. 



In presenting this book, the author desires to 
ward off all adverse criticism by stating that the 
work is not published for pecuniary profit, but sim- 
ply to fulfill a long felt ambition on the part of the 
author, and the contents of the book are not designed 
to show his actual possibilities, but he merely sub- 
mits the work with the hope that some time or other 
some part of it or other will cause a pleasant moment 
in the life of some person or other, and should this 
hope be realized, then the end to which the lines were 
written shall have been fully accomplished. 

When it comes to rhymes, few is plenty. The 
author could write an hundred more like these, and 
some perhaps much better, if he wanted to, "only he 
doesn't want to". 



(Unntrntri. 



PACK 

The Best Thanksgiving- 1 

In to Stay 9 

Old Man's Memory, The 11 

Origin of Thanksgiving Day 14 

At Three Score and Two .... 17 

Pictures of Illinois 19 

Where and What I've "Et" 22 

An Illinois Rain Storm 27 

Jim Taylor's Thanksgiving 29 

My Buckeye Home 35 



.iJUustratuiUf.. 



Frontispiece: The Prettiest Tree in Illinois. 

PAGE 

Parlors, 806 Glen Oak Avenue, Peoria 7 

Seward County, Kansas 11 

Deer, Glen Oak Park, Peoria 16 

Birthplace of D. S. Brown, "Lightning Bug," 

Mass 18 

301 "Taylor" Street, Peoria 19 

"The Bridge at the Turn o' th' Road" 21 

Street in Cummington, Mass 24 

Brown's cabin, Richwoods 25 

View from High Point, two miles above Prospect 

Park, on the Illinois river 26 

"Rhiny" and "Frank ie" Brown 33 



ullir Urst ©ljattkagtbmgt. 



(The story is of an old middle-state hoosier, who 
is trying to tell how much finer the Thanksgiving' of 
forty years ago was than that of today, but he is at 
last obliged to acknowledge the "corn" and admit 
that it was his age and keener senses at that time 
which made the old-fashioned holiday seem so much 
nicer, and he finally winds up with a full confession 
of his love for a dear little girl.) 



When the ripened stalk's been standin' 'bout a week, 
er two, er three, 

An' the single leaf is clingin' to the Slipp'ry "El- 
lum" tree; 

When the briars seem to shiver as they try to grasp 
yer hand, 

An' the well known Autumn Sadness is abroad upon 
the land; 

When the Hick'ry-nuts an' acorns cease to rattle on 
th' ground, 

An' the ever war}' chipmunk has his eye peeled fer 
the hound; 

When the Butter-nuts are gathered, an' the juicy big 
paw-paw, 

An' we're done a huskin' pumpkins, an' the Tur- 
key's in the straw; 

When the winds of early Winter seem to have a cer- 
tain howl, 

An' their most unpleasant zephyr roughs the feathers 
on the owl; 

When the chickens, scentin' Winter, hover 'round the 
kitchen door, 



An' the house-wife throws a bit of old red carpet on 

the iloor, 
Jest to keep the wind from slidin' through the door's 

old worn out sill, 
'Cause it came in bad last Winter, and she knows it 

surely will; 
When the kitchen floor's finer than the greenest 

grassj' plot, 
An' the boots are in the oven, jest to get 'em good an- 

hot; 
When the mince and Pumpkin pies have all been 

stacked away to keep, 
An' we've buried all the cabbage, an' potatoes by 

the heap; 
Then the big long rows o' jelly, an' the jam that 

aint been tried, 
An' the turnips and the sweet potates in bins along 

the side; 
When we had our own good eatin', an' we made it 

all ourself, 
An' the old Thanksgiving dinner from the pit an' 

from the shelf 
Was a heap an' shoutin' better than the Turk you're 

havin' now, 
Shipped at least a mile, or forty— maybe brought up 

with a cow; 
But you bet we had a dinner, don't you never need to 

fear. 
My! but wa'n't it quite excitin' when we rounded up 

a deer? 
No such eatin' now, you bet you, not a half the fun 

today. 
Think you wouldn't like to been there? Ask the folks 

that's old an' trrav 



Sittin' all around about ye, if 3 T e don't believe 
'twas fine 

When we topped the whole good feelin' with a glass 
o' Mother's wine. 

Tell ye, boys, there aint the gladness — though it's 
fine, an' so an' so, — 

That there was in old Thanksgivin' 'way back forty 
year ago. 

Tell ye, boys, it lacks the stufHn', — lacks the labor 
in the goods — 

Lacks the home-made air an' flavor — lacks the hunt- 
in' in the woods. 

But I reckon, though, you're better I'm a bit be- 
hind the race, 

But I can't enjoy the rattle an' the style around the 
place. 

Awful hard fer me to swaller; it aint picturesque no 
more. 

But I reckon, after all, there's fewer wolves aroun' 
the door, 

An' the}' tell me Uncle Sammy's goin' to give us lots 
to do, 

An' I reckon if we hunt it, it'll come tc me an' .you, 

An' I guess that after all it wa'n't so good so long 
ago; 

But, instead, I kind o' think — well, I was younger 
then, ye know; 

Love was young then, too, I tell you. Had the sweet- 
est little gal. 

An' to make this story jingle, haf to tell ye, it was 
Sal. 

When I took her out of evenin's to the school t<> learn 
to sing. 

Hardly clothes enough to hide me, she a clingin' to 
my wing. 











--- ' 










I } « ^ 

■ • » 


n 


Wit t 


p ^ 




" The big, long rows of jelly." 
5 





Care a dura about the weather, er the work we had 

to do; 
It was love that we was thinkin', love that's old an' 

tried and true. 
That's what makes me think 'twas finer, when of 

course it wasn't, though, 
An' I kind o' like to tell about the "used to be" ye 

know. 
Neighbors! Neighbors then, I tell ye, everybody in 

the set. 
I remember how we borried from each other, even 

yet. 
How we traded, one with t'other, wa'n't no mone}' 

question then; 
It was brother, friend an' brother, an' it never'll be 

again. 
But we still kin love the harder, if we only jest will 

try, 
As we sit around the table, eatin' Mother's home 

made pie, 
An' ferget about th' neighbors, an' th' feller that was 

mean, 
Jest by keepin' close together, with a conscience good 

an' clean. 
Jest a peggin' on ferever, with the love an' with the 

sweat, 
If we jest kin pull t'gether, why, we'll git there, 

maybe, vet. 



31 n ®o §>taij. 

As I sit bj' the grate, and I muse along, 

While the wet log seems to be hummin' a song, 

And the blazes flicker and die away — 

My feet up high, 'cause I'm "in to stay"; 

As the light goes out an' I'm there alone — 

That is, save the cat on the white hearth stone- 

There's a feelin' comes that I can't control, 

And it seems to capture my very soul. 

Outside the house the stars are bright, 

And 'spite of the cold, it's an elegant night. 

Jest such a sort of a night you'd like 

Made for a sleighride over the pike. 

But here I am, an' I can't be there, 

So I settle further into my chair, 

An' my gaze moves 'round to familiar traps; 

The old cat stretches herself an' gapes. 

Why, you couldn't buy my seat b' that grate. 

Not if you'd give me the whole durned state. 

I'm in this evenin', and in to stay, 

An' a team of mules couldn't get me away. 

I chuck on another good stick o' wood — 

The tire brightens an' feels so good, 

Then dies again to that ruddy glow 

That looks so cheerful like, don't ye know. 

Why, you couldn't pull me away, I say, 

Not with your team, the grey an' th' bay. 

An' I doubt if addin' the other two 

You could pull my frame from the dear old flue, 

'Cause I'm feelin' sort o' jest this way: 

I'm fixed jest right, an' I'm "in to stay". 

















" Our own good eatin'." 

in 





<Jhr (Olii iflau's iRrnumt. 



I was talkin' to neighbor Jones today, 
While we was pitchin' that load o' hay, 
An' he was a sayin' he never heered tell 
Of such a terrible long dry spell 
As this here weather we're havin' now. 
"Why," 's'l, "I'll put this hay in th' mow 
If I haint a better mem'ry'n that 
Under my old last Summer's hat". 




" While we was pitchin' that load o' hay. 



W'y, M'ria, you recollect right well 
The time when we hed that long dry spell 
Th' year o' the frost ev'ry month but June, 
An' we set up to watch the eclipse o' th' moon, 



Recollect? 'Twas the summer I bought old Dick 
An' we cleared th' forty jest north o' th' crick. 
W'y, pshaw, 'long side o' that we're fine. 
I'll tell ye the year — it was fifty-nine. 
Remember? Old Weatherby died that year. 
An' they fetched him home an' buried him here, 
An' they opened th' church an' held high Mass, 
An' th' sun was so hot that it cracked th' glass 
In the old feller's coffin, don't ye mind? 
An' all o' th' crops got away behind? 
An' we came near losin' our home an' all. 
An' it didn't rain till away in th' Fall? 
W'y, 'course you remember, an' so do I, 
An' didn't the shoats an' th' pullets die? 
An' th' dust got so deep it was jest like snow. 
An' we sprinkled aroun' th' well, I know! 
An' then fer old Jones to stand up an' say 
That he'd never seen it in all his day. 
Wy if I would forget like that man does 
I couldn't tell bees when I heered 'em buzz. 




I remember it jest as well's kin be — 

The summer that Marv was goin' on three, 



Th' summer that Jim fell an' bu'sted a rib, 
An' nary a smitchin o' corn in th' crib. 
You bet I remember! I'm g-oin' back now, 
An' offer to put Jones' hay in th' mow 
Unless I kin prove that my mem'ry's right. 
Jim, where is my hat? I'll be home 'bout night. 




ODruiin nf ulljankfiruhuui. 



When those old friends of Plymouth stock 

Had scraped a bare existence here, 
Had cleared some land and reared a flock 

Around their homes well earned and dear 
Had raised a crop of things to eat 

And stacked their Winter store away, 
They vowed to have a wholesome treat, 

And thus commenced Thanksgiving' Day. 

Each year it grew, this general spread, 

Spurred on at times, as Pumpkin pie, 
And fruit and cake and ginger bread 

Came on to make the living high. 
And naught was spared to make this feast 

A royal time for one and all. 
And scoffed was he who ate the least, 

Though thin, or stout, or short, or tall. 




And as the nation lived and grew 

And colonies and states were made. 
The custom then was born anew, 

And thus it lived, and grew, and stayed. 
It now is bound to live for aye 

As part of this, a self made land. 
Our noble chief appoints the day, 

And we give thanks on every hand. 




At Shrrr g>rnrr ani» ullim. 



(These verses were written for my father's 62nd 
birthday celebration, and I sat still with them in my 
pocket until the celebration was over, because of my 
modesty. I have since become more careless, and 
they are now printed in all their sublimity.) 



At three score years and two, and yet so spry. 
Would think 'twere only thirty, maybe less: 

And having- still the keenest ear and eye, 
Would seem to me a tub of happiness. 

These things alone, I think, without the rest, 
Would quite suffice to make him feel quite gay, 

But when with two good legs and arms he's blest, 
Most any man would welcome this great day. 




" The Turk." 

In checking up life's book, he turns along 
Until the new page numbers "Sixty-two 

It seems to me with mind and body strong 
The fun of life is just begun anew. 



No record now to make, or path to choose, 
No wish, except to have a right good time; 

No fear of putting in to win or lose, 

Like man will do when onl}' in his prime. 

It seems that Sixty-two is just the place 
When one who reaches there as well as he 

Can safely rest and saj-, "I've won the race; 
I'll sit me down 'neath life's big shady tree. 




"And when I see a chance to make a stake. 
Without the chance of loss, or fear or care, 

I'll take it, with my right hand on the brake. 
And give my orders from an easy chair." 

A time like this I'd call the cake of life, 
And naught but fun, as mentioned heretofore. 

To visit with a loving help-mate wife, 

Where business cannot find him any more. 



•Pirturrr. nf .llllittnir.. 




Carry me back to the good old home, 

Back where the plow turns the rich black loam: 

< >ver the bridge at th' turn o' th' road, 

CJp on th' hill where th' Sumach growed. 

Back where the leaves are all aglow, 

Just as th' Autumn sun is low. 

Back where the Wahoo grows so high, 

There in the vale, where th' crick runs dry. 




There where th' first mud pies were made, 
Back where we little ones always played. 
Back to the hills and th' dales so grand, 
Back to th' dear old "Sucker" land. 
Over th' wheat fields, up an' down, 
Out o' th' noise and dust in town. 
Thro' th' big woods to th' Walnut trees, 
Swaying up high in th' Autumn breeze. 
There you can find me in heart, sir, still. 
Just as I love them, I always will. 



Wljrrr atrt HBliat 3J'br 'Ei. 



(For a Thanksgiving- toast at the Brown House, 1902 ) 



I have et in lofty gables 

Ami I've et beneath the trees. 
From the humblest veg-e-tables 

To the swell imported cheese. 
I have et in SanFrancisco 

And I've et in New Orleans, 
I have et the famed Nabisco 

And the Heinz's Pork & Beans. 
I have et from cut glass dishes, 

And from wooden plates as well. 




I have et the ocean fishes, 

Which were surely mighty swell. 
I have eaten clammy chowder. 

And the oyster from the shell. 
I have et complexion powder, 

Which I hadn't better tell. 
I have skimmed the skum of juices 

From the California fruit. 
I have et in train cabooses 

And the dining car to boot. 




I have et in three-cent flunkies, 

Where the cook is never in. 
I have even et with monkeys, 

Or they might as well have been. 
I have et of biscuits shredded 

And of some just made to keep. 
I have et veal cutlets, breaded, 

That would grace the garbage heap. 
I have et bologna ringers 

And the famous wiener wurst; 
They were surely old hum-dingers. 

And you had to see them first. 
I have even et in gutters, 

With the table on a box. 
I have et all sorts of butters. 

Some as strong as Streator's ox. 
I have et the Macaroni 

And the milk that's made of chalk. 
I have tasted codfish bony 

That was loud enough to talk. 
I have et the perfumed onions 

In a greasy little fry: 
They will penetrate your bunions 

And the taste will never die. 



But my heart is kind o' swellin' 

And I guess I might as well 
Settle down and get to tellin' 

What I started out to tell. 
So there aint no need to worry. 

Just keep sittin' on your chair, 
'Cause I'll tell it in a hurry, 

And I'll tell it on the square. 
It will only take a minute, 

And I'll tell it good and loud. 
I am not ashamed what's in it, 

So I'll tell the whole durned crowd. 
Now get ready, folks, to hear it, 

Bend your ears out toward your nose- 
Now I think I feel the spirit — 

Yes, I know it— here she goes: 
When it comes right down to cookin'. 

Mother Brown does touch the spot; 
She is mighty blamed good lookin', 

And she skins the whole durned lot. 




An 31 litmus JgUttn-&torm. 



It was jest along towards evenin', an' the day'd been 

hot an' dry; 
Not a rain since Decoration— not a ripple in th' sky. 
Till this day in airly August, looked an awful lot 

like rain, 
An' th' breeze struck up that evenin' waved the corn 

stalks an' th' grain. 
All along the broad horizon thunder heads begun to 

show, 
An' th' clouds all looked like funnels, an' th' wind 

begun to blow. 
Looked a good deal like a cyclone. It was rain we 

all could tell, 
'Cause the air was so refreshin', an' it had that 

rainy smell. 
Then we heered th' distant thunder, comin' louder 

every time; 
Hadn't heered that fer a quarter — sounded sweet as 

any chime. 
Then agin th' Western sunlight you could see the rain 

beat down, 
An' th' neighbors said they heered it when it crossed 

th' nearest town. 
All th' time it thundered louder, gettin' blacker all 

around. 
What a blessin' was a comin'; it would moisten up 

th' ground. 
Lay th' dust an' help th' farmers, fill th' cisterns, 

all gone dry. 



So we all sat out to watch it, as the clouds was rush- 
in' by. 

Then we thought we felt a sprinkle. If it rained we 
wouldn't run, 

'Cause we wanted rain so badly, gettin' wet would 
jest be fun. 

Then the ducks begun to chuckle an' we knew th' 
rain was near, 

An' the thunder, like a battle, seemed to pierce from 
ear to ear. 

But the storm kept on a comin', we a settin' out there 
still 

'Till the West begun to brighten where the storm had 
seemed to spill; 

Then th' thunder ceased to rattle — an' th' night be- 
gun to fall — 

All our own imagination — 'cause it didn't rain, at 
all. 




3ttn Sajjlar's uiliankruuiuuri. 



Jimmie Taylor — just an orphan, left to go the world 

alone, 
Just a reckless sort o' stroller, not a soul to call his 

own; 
But they took him in at Taylor's, 'cause he didn't 

seem so bad. 
An' they brush'd him up an' kept him, an' it made 

his heart feel grlad. 




All the summer long he labored with the others 

'round the place; 
When they went to look the cows up he was always 

in the chase. 
He was just a buxum hunter, never failed to find the 

game, 
And no matter how they scolded, Jim was always 

just the same. 
Always stirrin' at the daybreak, always last to bed 

at night; 
When the boys would get in trouble, he was always 

there to fight. 
Didn't care a cent fer money — hardly ever left the 

place, 
An' no matter when you went there, you would see 

his pleasant face, 
Makin' friends with all the strangers, like the ones 

he knew the best, 
Sittin' on the kitchen door-sill, just as happ}' lis the 

rest. 
'Twas the mornin' of Thanksgivin', an' it happened 

I was there; 
Mrs. Taylor cookin' turkey, good things steamin' 

everywhere. 
Jim was sittin' there a thinkin', savin' not a single 

word ; 
He had never seen Thanksgivin', but from what he 

seen and heard 
He could tell that some uncommon thing was hap- 

penin' that da3% 
But poor Jim, somehow or other, didn't have a word 

to say. 
Not a soul had thought to tell him anything about the 

fun, 
Or the turkey he'd be eatin', just as soon as it was 

done ; 



So he just was sittin' thinkin' as the folks went to 

an' fro, 
May be he was losin' favor, sort o' out o' place, you 

know. 
So he moped around until he couldn't stand it any 

more ; 
Then he stole in by the fire-place, an' laid down on 

the floor. 
All the time the folks was busy g-ettin' dinner fer the 

crowd, 
An' the young folks seemed so happy, an' the\ r 

laughed an' joked so loud; 
Not a soul had missed poor Jimmie, an' he soon 

dropped off to sleep 
By the big- red open fire, in a cozy little heap. 
An' at last we sat at Dinner, an' the glee was at its 

height, 
But they'd left out orphan Jimmie, an' I didn't feel 

just right; 
But I thought of course they knew it, an' it wa'n't 

m}' place to sa}\ 
But I thought of Jim, so faithful, now to miss Thanks- 

givin' Day — 




'Cause the dinner was the makin' of Thanksgivin' 
Day to me — 

An' to think of Jim a sleepin', kind o' spoilt the thing', 
you see. 

Didn't seem to me like human, yet I kept the secret 
still 

'Till they all had finished eatin', an' I, too, had got 
my fill; 

Then I mustered up the courage 'nough to mention 
Orphan Jim, 

An' they all with meri-3' laughter, said, "We hadn't 
thought of him". 

But we went an' found poor Jimmie, an' we gave him 
what was left, 

An' he ate it with a relish, not like one of friends be- 
reft, 

An' he didn't seem to think we'd slighted him a 
single bit, 

But he just kept on a eatin', like he wouldn't ever 
quit, 

An' it did more good fer me to see him stow the grub 
away 

Than I ever had in eatin' any old Thanksgivin' Day. 

So the story now is ended, Jim got all that he could 
eat 

Of the good Thanksgivin' gravy an' the splendid tur- 
key meat, 

But I couldn't quite get over thinkin' how they slight- 
ed him. 

It was Taylor's big pet Bull-dog. There's the secret, 
that was Jim. 



32 




^\9 




34 



iflil "Hurkrijr" Tiinmr. 



(These verses were written to be published in the 
form of ;i popular song, about the time of the "Stale 
song-" craze. The actual time consumed in writing 
and correcting was fourteen minutes.) 



There's a treasure in my mem'ry that will always 
have a place 
In recollections of the days gone by; 
'Tis my home in broad Ohio, as it stood in stately 
grace, 
And a thought of home and Mother brings a sigh. 
The pictures of my boyhood stand before me bright 
as day — 
Methinks I see my Father as of yore. 
And my boyish friends and playmates, in the games 
we used to play, 
As we gathered 'round the little cottage door. 




"As it stood in stately grace." 



Just a passing mem'ry of the dear old "Buckeye" 

land, 
Just a mental picture of the hills and dales so grand, 
'Tis a grand companion, as in sadness now I roam. 
Just to see Ohio, and my dear old "Buckeye" home. 

There's another fond remembrance of the place I long 
to see, 
'Tis a girl I met and learned to love so well; 
'Twas a pretty mi id of just eighteen, and true as she 
she could be, 
And I long to see her now, my love to tell. 
The sun shines bright for me at home, a welcome al- 
ways there; 
Perhaps some day I'll wander as before, 
In the pathways of my childhood, with my sweet- 
heart, fond and fair, 
For I love the dear old "Buckeye" more and more. 

Just a passing mem'ry of the dear old "Buckeye" 

land, 
Just a mental picture of the hills and dales so grand, 
'Tis a grand companion, as in sadness now I roam. 
Just to see Ohio, and 013' dear old "Buckeye" home. 




2-190# 



